


if i were that kind of grateful (what would i try to say?)

by hihoplastic



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-05 04:23:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16803565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: Pippa shakes her awake in the dead of night, a light hand on her shoulder that jolts Hecate out of her dream.“Pippa?  What’s wrong?”Pippa blinks down at her, just moonlight shadowing her face, and smiles somewhat guilily. “Nothing,” she reassures quickly “Just—it’s snowing.”--A series of fics for the #ww2018winterfluffevent





	1. first snowfall

**Author's Note:**

> \- Theoretically all of these will connect and tell one singular story but given I haven't actually written them yet... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> \- For the #ww2018winterfluffevent! Thank you, Cass, for organizing this!!  
> \- Title from Vienna Teng's "The Last Snowfall"

Pippa shakes her awake in the dead of night, a light hand on her shoulder that jolts Hecate out of her dream. 

“Pippa? What’s wrong?” 

Pippa blinks down at her, just moonlight shadowing her face, and smiles somewhat guiltily. “Nothing,” she reassures quickly “Just—it’s snowing.” 

Hecate sits up, sleep creasing the corner of her eyes. “Snowing?” 

Pippa nods, hands fidgeting in front of her. She looks nervous, still in her dressing gown, hair slightly mussed, though her eyes are wide and bright and Hecate wonders if she’s been to sleep at all. She knows Pippa’s been busy—stressed—planning the end of term ball and proctoring exams and keeping all of her students on track. Hecate’s felt the same—term at Cackle’s ended just a few days earlier, and she’d taken Pippa up on her offer to visit a bit too quickly, eager to get away from the lingering stress in the air and faded laughter of her own students. 

It’s the first night in what feels like months that she’s actually slept peacefully, for more than a few hours, and she thinks she should feel slighted that her precious rest has been interrupted. 

But Pippa looks so young, standing at the edge of her bed in Pentangle’s guest room, chewing slightly on her lower lip, waiting, and Hecate sighs, brushing her hair out of her eyes. 

“It’s the first snowfall here,” Pippa says after a moment. “I thought—” 

Hecate nods, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “You can’t go out dressed like that.” 

Pippa’s smile creeps across her face, slow and steady, and Hecate’s pulse skips at the delight in her eyes as she quickly changes her clothes, a heavy pink cloak wrapped around her shoulders. 

Hecate stands, follows suit, exchanging her pyjamas for her usual dress and a thick black cloak. The magic has barely faded when Pippa grabs her hand, tugging her out of the room. 

“We’ll stop by the potions lab first,” she says, and Hecate’s skin tingles where they touch, but she doesn’t pull away. 

She understands Pippa’s excitement—the first snowfall is a magical thing, quite literally. Everything it touches becomes enhanced, powers and properties heightened at the first touch of new snow. Cackle’s saw the first snowfall weeks ago, and Hecate had spent hours out in the garden, in the forest, meticulously gathering ingredients, labeling them just so, and tucking them away in her own rooms. They’re far too dangerous for students, too potent, but necessary to keep around, just in case. 

They stop to gather jars and baskets and then transfer outside. It’s cold, but the air feels clear and sharp against Hecate’s cheeks, welcome after the heat of the castle, and she takes a deep breath, blinking against the darkness. The lights from Pentangle’s illuminate the grounds, just a little, and it reminds her of when they were children, sneaking out at first snowfall each year to stock up on their own secret inventory—Pippa’s idea, of course, but Hecate never said no. Never even tried. 

“Should we start with the honeysuckle tree?” 

Hecate nods, follows Pippa across the quiet grounds, and they spend the next few hours working in silence, gathering snow-kissed flowers and herbs, working in tandem, the way they always did, instinctively, naturally. From time to time Pippa looks up at her and beams, a wide smile and pink blush tugging at her cheeks, and Hecate knows she’s thinking of the same thing, the way things used to be, the way they’ve come full circle. 

It’s still dark by the time they finish, and Pippa transfers them both back to her quarters, vanishes the things they’ve gathered and lights a fire. 

“Tea?” 

Hecate nods, slips out of her own cloak and settles in her usual seat, an atrociously pink wingbacked chair closest to the fire. Pippa pours the tea and passes her a mug, fingers brushing against the warm porcelain, and Hecate ducks her head to hide the blush that creeps across her cheekbones. She’ll blame it on the fire, if asked, but Pippa won’t—she never does, and Hecate is never quite sure if she’s grateful for that or not. If perhaps, if confronted, she could be brave. 

Instead, Pippa settles in the corner of her loveseat, blowing on her tea, her eyes sleepy but bright. 

“Thank you,” she says, “For going with me.” 

Hecate nods, but doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to tell her that there isn’t anything she wouldn’t do, if Pippa asked. If Pippa smiled at her just so. It takes her too long, the moment already passed, but she says it anyway, almost a question: 

“It’s tradition.” 

Pippa’s eyes jump to hers, and Hecate wonders if she can see the apology there—for all the years they missed—and the promise—for all the years to come. She thinks—hopes—by the soft, gentle smile that crosses Pippa’s lips, the way she flushes and looks away, looks back, her eyes warm and gentle, that she hears her. 


	2. lights

Pippa jumps as another boom of thunder sounds from outside, grateful, not for the first time, for Hecate’s steadying presence next to her. She’s certain she could have managed without—has done, for close to thirty years—but Hecate’s careful glances, the rare and fleeting brushes of her hand over Pippa’s elbow, remind her of when they were children. When she was terrified of thunderstorms. When she would sneak into Hecate’s room at night and stay huddled with her on the bed, reading by the light of magic as a distraction. 

Now, Hecate’s hands are filled with light again, but with a different purpose. The storm outside has knocked the electricity out throughout the castle, leaving far too many spaces pitch black or shadowed. Thankfully exams have ended, but the Yule Ball is tomorrow, and there are still plenty of students around, huddling near the windows to watch the wind shake the trees, or hiding behind mugs of cocoa in the great hall. 

All the teachers, herself and Hecate included, have tasked themselves with setting up lights throughout the main hallways, the dormitories, a few classrooms, and other areas of importance. Hecate, of course, had insisted she could light the whole castle all at once, but Pippa hadn’t wanted to put the strain on her magic, or on her own; and, she admits if only to herself, there’s something magical about the floating lights that now decorate the halls, the strings of fairy lights wrapped around pillars and draped over entranceways. 

Hecate, she’s certain, finds it frivolous, but she helps just the same, working with Pippa in quiet harmony to brighten the school. 

Hecate doesn’t say much, but Pippa isn’t worried. In the two years since they’ve reconciled, she’s re-learned to read Hecate’s moods, to understand her mannerisms. She can tell by the curve of her wrist, soft, that she isn’t upset; can see in the slight way she furrows her brow that she’s merely concentrating, though Pippa knows she hardly needs to concentrate on such a simple spell. 

It’s a companionable silence, and one they’ve earned—through all the stops and starts, the missteps and back-peddling. Pippa knows, by the slant of Hecate’s shoulders, that she’s finally comfortable here, on the grounds of Pentangle’s, in Pippa’s presence, even around some of her students and faculty. She’s visited enough times that her presence is second nature to the others now, and she’s thankful for it. Thankful that Hecate feels welcome in her home, at peace, or at least as close to it as she can out of a space that isn’t strictly her own. 

A slight smile crooks at Pippa’s lips, and she forces herself to look away from Hecate’s profile, to concentrate on her own lighting, unsurprised that, when Hecate finally does break the silence, it’s with a pointed, “You do realize that just because you’ve modernized divination with spell casting and technology, it’s still hardly a subject worthy of academic discipline.” 

Pippa rolls her eyes, but secretly thrills at the fact that Hecate has clearly read her essay, published last week, has clearly been thinking about it. Her tone is mild, more curious than anything else, and it spurs them into a conversation about the merits of tarot and tea leaves and Hecate doesn’t once raise her voice, doesn’t get heated, just calmly counters Pippa’s claims with those of her own, and it’s delightful. The sparring is tinged with humor, neither so invested in the subject as to raise any hackles, both merely speaking to speak—to pass the time. 

It goes by faster, this way, and before she knows it they’ve finished their section of the castle, and make to return to Pippa’s rooms. 

It isn’t until they’re back in her quarters, and a crash of thunder rattles the windows, that Pippa realizes how quiet it’s been, only their voices filling the hallways. She hasn’t heard the storm for ages, but it looks the same, still raging, rain battering the cobblestones and melting the first—and so far only—snowfall of the season from the night before. 

Pippa frowns, peering out the window, about to ask when she feels the tingle of magic not her own lace its way around the room. Now that she’s paying attention, she hears the whistle of wind quiet into nothing, into silence, and when she glances over, Hecate’s fingers are moving surreptitiously against her thigh. 

A silencing spell. 

Draped subtly over the room, drowning out the storm, the rolling thunder, and Pippa feels her eyes suddenly water, her chest tighten. She holds one end of the fairy lights they’re hanging over the fireplace and pauses, staring at Hecate, overwhelmed. 

She could do her own silencing spell, of course, as easily as Hecate can—but she’s always tried to tough it out, told herself her fear was silly, and unwarranted. That she should merely get over it. 

But apparently Hecate doesn’t feel the same. Still, after so many years, feels the need to protect her, and rather than frustrate or offend, it sends a bright, warm feeling up Pippa’s spine, and she feels safe, here, in her dark room, with only the glow of Hecate’s magic and half-strung bulbs for light.

“Pippa?” 

Pippa blinks, shakes her head, and gives Hecate a wobbly grin. “Sorry. I got distracted.” 

Hecate frowns. “By what?” 

Pippa doesn’t answer. Not until she finishes pinning her side of the string, until they’ve stretched hovering lights throughout the sitting area, and Pippa’s lit the fire. It casts an orange glow over Hecate’s cheekbones, and to some, she thinks, it would make her look all the more terrifying. Her sharp angles, dark shadows. But to Pippa, she looks beautiful. A bit fragile. A bit rough-edged. But beautiful. 

“You can be awfully sweet,” she says quietly. “You know that?” 

Hecate’s cheeks pink and she stammers a moment before recovering, smoothing her face into one of practiced confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Pippa laughs softly. “Of course not,” she says, but leans forward and kisses her cheek all the same. 


	3. party

She has to admit, against her better judgement, that the Great Hall looks marvelous. Instead of the pink, garish display she’d expected (and Pippa had teased her about), the room is decorated in deep maroons, forest greens, and bright whites. The ceiling’s been enchanted to look like softly falling snow (to make up for, she thinks, the damage the rain has done to the outdoors), magical flakes falling and disappearing just out of reach of the students gathered there.

The music is too loud for her tastes, too boisterous, but there’s an altar set up in the corner, and Hecate is pleased to see a few older students in solemn reflection, lighting candles in thanks for their magical gifts. She’d done the same that morning, at her own altar in her room at Pentangle’s, and it steals something warm down her spine, that Pippa had listened to her suggestion, that the students are taking advantage of it. Perhaps some traditions, she thinks, can survive even the most modern of adaptations.

The hall is filled with laughter and chatter, a great table set up with treats and drinks, and Hecate nods to Pippa’s deputy across the hall, a woman who, in Hecate’s opinion, is far too lenient, but seems to revere magic in a similar way to herself. It was difficult, at first, to appreciate the differences at Pentangle’s—the use of technology, the modern chanting, the emphasis on art and culture, foreign language study and other more contemporary practices. She still doesn’t quite understand, but she’s observed enough classes by now to know that the students here are in good hands, that magic is still of utmost importance, despite the differences and departure from the traditional methods she’s so accustomed to. She doesn’t always agree—and she and Pippa have had their fair share of arguments over the past two years—but, it no longer itches at her skin when she sees boys with wands or girls practicing new songs in the courtyard. Though she has no desire to bring any of these modernisms to Cackle’s, she can appreciate, finally, what Pippa’s done, the way her school works, the amount of love and care that’s gone into her pupils’ education.

She keeps that mostly to herself, however, though she thinks Pippa knows. Pippa always seems to know, and it’s familiar and frightening and somehow comforting all at the same time.

Standing on the edge of the crowd, she watches the students dance and laugh and thinks of their own Yule Balls, the ones she rarely attended. Thinks of Pippa returning to her room far too early, to spend the rest of the evening with her, sheltered away. At the time, she’d thought it was a burden on Pippa, a sacrifice she made to keep her friendship; but she knows now that Pippa needs the solitude as much as she does. That while she’s far better at communicating with other people, far more tolerant and outgoing, she has her limits.

It’s why, she thinks, Pippa has spent the last few hours getting ready on her own. A time to decompress, after they’d spent the morning together, helping put the final touches on the party. Her eyes scan the crowd now, knowing Pippa will be here soon—she won’t want to miss it, Hecate knows. Won’t want to miss the opportunity to see her students so bright and carefree.

Sure enough, only a few more minutes pass before there’s the tingle of magic, and Pippa appears at her side, a smile already in place.

“Well?” she asks. “What do you think?”

She’s talking about the party, Hecate’s certain, but when she glances over, all she can think about is Pippa. Pippa, in a soft green dress, her hair loose around her shoulders in waves, a shoulder bare, silver snowflakes hanging from her ears.

Hecate falters.

She’s seen Pippa dressed up, dressed down, in everything from evening gowns to pyjamas, but every time, Hecate feels unmoored. Feels adrift, wanting nothing more than to reach out and touch—to brush her hair back from her cheek, to settle a hand on the smooth skin of her shoulder, to draw a finger along her collarbone. Her hands curl into fists at her sides and she has to look down, look away, before she clears her throat and manages a tight,

“It is… not terrible. I was expecting more pink.”

Pippa laughs. “I could brighten it up for you if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Hecate says, chancing a glance at her again. She looks relaxed, happy, and it brings a small smile to Hecate’s cheeks, one she tries to bury when Pippa turns to her, eyes soft.

“You look wonderful,” she says, and Hecate frowns. She hadn’t bothered dressing up, still in her usual black, her hair the same, makeup the same, no effort beyond simply showing up. But when she meets Pippa’s eyes, she can tell, the words aren’t facetious. She means it, whatever _that_ means, and her throat goes dry.

“You look very…” She searches for a word that won’t give her away. “Nice.”

It’s only because she’s watching so closely that she sees Pippa’s smile falter, just a little. “Thank you,” she says, but looks away, and Hecate’s stomach curls into a knot. “I’d better mingle a bit,” she says, and Hecate nods, watches her disappear into the crowd and wonders what she’s done.   
  
Pippa doesn’t seem angry—continues to seek her out throughout the evening, smiling at her from across the hall, bringing her a glass of wine, laughing when Hecate materializes between two students dancing a bit too close, and they jump apart. She seems to forget, as the night goes on, and whatever it was fades to the back of Hecate’s mind. Still there, but quieter.

It’s the quiet that allows her to focus in on the conversation a good distance behind her, two older students piling food on paper plates, whispering, “Doesn’t Miss Pentangle look _beautiful?_ I’ve never seen her dress up before, not for Yule.”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” the other counters around a mouthful of donut. “It’s because Miss Hardbroom is here.”

“Ellie, shush!”

Hecate freezes, doesn’t dare turn around, or move, or breathe.

“What? It’s sweet. I mean, I think Miss Hardbroom’s terrifying, but Miss Pentangle seems to like her.”

“Sarah says they were friends when they were our age?”

Hecate bristles at the rumor, too true.

One of the girls giggles. “ ‘ _Friends_ ,’ ” she says, and Hecate can hear the air quotes in her tone, and then: “Oh, come on—Miss Pentangle’s clearly in lo—”

Hecate transfers away, out into the hall, away from the noise and music and conversation and the end of the sentence, hanging. She can’t catch her breath. Can’t imagine such a thing is true, and the fancy of it, _out of the mouths of babes_ , makes her eyes sting. She wishes it were true. Wishes Pippa felt the way the girls seem to think but she’s older, and wiser, and knows better; but it doesn’t stop her chest from aching, her heart from cracking.

“Hecate?”

She startles, whirling to find Pippa behind her, a hand outstretched toward her shoulder. She drops it when Hecate jumps, tangling her fingers together in front of her.

“Are you alright?”

Her brow is furrowed, mouth in a thin, concerned line, and she’s beautiful. The dim light from the hallways casts warm shadows on her face, makes her dress look a deeper green, her earrings sparkle.

 _It’s because Miss Hardbroom is here_ , she hears, echoed, and it takes her a moment to rearrange her face, to pull herself together enough to say,

“Fine. I merely wanted some quiet.”

It must come out too harsh, too pointed, because Pippa winces and looks away. “Sorry,” she says, “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll leave you to—”

“No,” Hecate says quickly, reaching for her, then falling away. “No, I merely meant—the music. I wanted to get away from the music.”

Pippa nods slowly, still unsure. She doesn’t leave, but she seems hesitant, reluctant, and Hecate scrambles for something to say, something to do, something to mute the ringing in her ears,

_Miss Pentangle’s clearly in lo—_

She isn’t naive. There’s only one way that sentence ends, as much as she doesn't believe it could be true.

Resisting the urge to bite her lip, she thinks carefully, tries to see what the girls see, but she can’t. Doesn’t know what Pippa feels, or why she would—but her urge to run away, to hide herself and process the myriad of emotions is overruled by the nervousness in Pippa’s stance, the sudden distance that was there before, at the beginning of the night, back between them, and she wonders, despite herself, if maybe Pippa did dress up for her. And if she had, how callous Hecate’s words might seem. How unimpressed.

Hecate is always impressed. That’s part of the problem, she thinks, watching Pippa now, fidgeting in front of her.

“I thought I might take a walk,” she says slowly, carefully, “if you’d like to join me?”

“Outside?” Pippa asks, startled, glancing out the window at the still-steady rain.

“No,” Hecate says. “Just to get away from the crowd for a moment.”

“Are you sure you want the company?”

_Are you sure you want me?_

Hecate tries to lift her lips in a smile. “Yours? Of course.”

Pippa’s smile brightens the hall, and after a moment of walking, she seems to have no trouble looping her arm through Hecate’s, tugging her close, by now a familiar gesture. They talk about the party, about the break, how quiet the school will be without the students.

They talk about everything and nothing, making a wide loop through the castle. Hecate doesn’t say too much, thoughts still whirling, but she interjects every so often, makes Pippa laugh. A bright, light thing that makes Hecate’s stomach flutter.

When they arrive back at the great hall, Pippa detangles herself, stepping away. She smiles, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking down, almost nervous.

“Hecate,” she starts, and Hecate doesn’t know what she plans to say. Doesn’t really want to know, not in this moment—isn’t certain she could handle it, whatever it is.

“I misspoke, before,” she interrupts, heart thundering, staring at a point over Pippa’s shoulder.

“Oh?”

“Yes.” She clears her throat. “Nice was...inadequate.” She shifts her gaze to Pippa’s, sees the surprise there. “You’re stunning,” she says, haltingly, awkwardly, but Pippa’s eyes widen and she inhales sharply and for a moment Hecate thinks she’s said the wrong thing, done the wrong thing; and then Pippa grins, blushing deeply.  
  
“Thank you, Hiccup,” she murmurs. She leans forward, as if to buss a kiss to Hecate’s cheeks when two boys come scrambling out of the hall, yelling about something, and their attention is diverted; but for the remainder of the evening, Hecate feels her cheeks burn, and she keeps catching sight of Pippa, glancing at her, then away, a shy smile on her lips, and for the first time, a new beat pulses under her skin, like wings: _maybe maybe maybe_.


	4. tradition

She tries not to dwell too much on Hecate’s words from the night before. Tries not to over-analyze the soft look in her eyes, the tentative honesty in her voice, the compliment that felt like so much more, in Hecate’s deliberate tone. 

But over breakfast, it gives her confidence, the memory of Hecate’s soft blush, to ask the question that’s been on her tongue for weeks: 

“Will you come home with me?”

Hecate frowns, and Pippa flushes at her phrasing, clarifying, “For Yule dinner. At my parents’. It’s tradition—my mother will bake far too many sweets, my father will drink a comical amount of port. My brother will be there, with his kids—you haven’t met them yet—but it’s just us—not a big gathering.”

Hecate sets down her fork, staring intently at her plate for a long moment while Pippa’s breath hangs in her throat. 

“I’m—not certain that’s a good idea,” she says, but it’s half a question, and Pippa is quick to reassure her,

“No, they’d—we’d—love to have you.”

Hecate raises her eyes to Pippa’s, looks unconvinced, a shadow on her face she gets when she’s thinking about regrets, and Pippa can’t stop herself from reaching across the table for Hecate’s hand. She startles, but doesn’t pull away, and Pippa gives her her warmest smile. 

“They know things are different, now,” she says. “They know we’re—“ She stumbles slightly on the word, “Friends. Besides,” she covers quickly, “I don’t want you all alone for the holidays.”

Hecate looks away. “I never should have told you Ada was going home for break,” she says, but it’s mild, and Pippa smirks. 

“It is fabulous ammunition,” she agrees, and Hecate huffs, pauses, says, 

“I don’t want to intrude—“

“It’s not an intrusion. I want you there.”

Hecate flushes slightly, but still manages to wing an eyebrow. “And your family? I’m sure they aren’t keen on—“

“On my best friend coming to dinner? Please. Mother’s heard all about you the last few months—don’t be surprised if she knits you something horrible.”

Hecate wrinkles her nose and Pippa laughs for a moment, quieting when she sees the solemn look in Hecate’s eyes, her pursed lips. 

“What are you thinking?” she asks gently, squeezing her hand again. 

Hecate clears her throat. “Yule is a time for family, Pippa,” she reminds her. 

“And friends,” Pippa counters. “And covens, and community. There’s no one way to celebrate, Hecate.”

Hecate’s lips quirk. “How terribly modern of you.”

“Hardly,” Pippa says, pauses, then chances, “I know the holidays weren’t easy for you, growing up. If you’d rather be alone, I understand. But…”

“But?”

“We’ve always been a sort of family, haven’t we?”

She can see the moment Hecate relents, misgivings about the whole thing falling away, and she nods, squeezes Pippa’s hand back. 

“Very well,” she says, and Pippa beams, tells her the details and what to bring (“Just yourself, and Morgana, if you’d like.”)—“You’re welcome to stay the night as well,” she says, though doesn’t press, and Hecate agrees to think about it. 

They wrap up breakfast, and Hecate gathers her things, intent on returning to Cackle’s to prep for the new term for a few days and finish any miscellaneous papers Ada’s forgotten.

Pippa stands next to her on the damp grass, reminds her again the time and place, and Hecate pauses, broomstick in hand. 

“I’ll be there,” she says quietly, meeting Pippa’s gaze. “I promise.” 

_ This time _ goes unsaid, but Pippa hears, and her breathing stalls, and she wraps her arms around Hecate’s neck briefly, buries her face in her shoulder to hide the wide, watery smile. 

Hecate tenses momentarily, as she always does, but smooths a hand briefly down Pippa’s spine before pushing her gently away. 

“I should go.”

“See you soon,” Pippa says, unable to say goodbye, not this time.

Hecate nods. “I’ll be there.”

She feels a bit ridiculous, like a giddy schoolgirl, but as she watches Hecate fly away, she can’t help the bubbly feeling in her stomach the hope that maybe, maybe, things are about to change. 


	5. first holiday together

It takes several days for the reality of her promise to sink in. To come to a complete understanding that she’ll be spending a sacred holiday not alone, not with Ada, not even with Pippa alone, but with Pippa’s family.

It’s been almost two decades since she’s seen them, longer since she’s received anything more than a brusque tone and pointed glare from across a conference hall or inopportune run-in at an event.

She doesn’t know what they think of her now. Pippa has assured her everything will be fine—that they understand, that they’re looking forward to her presence, but she says nothing about forgiveness, and Hecate is quite certain that hasn’t been earned, as far as her family is concerned. She doesn’t blame them. Can’t imagine how she would feel, if someone abandoned someone she loved and then, years later, appeared as if everything were normal, unapologetic.

She is apologetic, but doesn’t know how to convey that to Pippa’s family. She spends days agonizing over what to bring—Pippa said nothing was required, but she knows she can’t show up empty handed. Can’t show up with a bottle of her father’s favorite sherry and pretend she never hurt Pippa, never hurt their daughter.

She tries to think of things Pippa has said over the last year, about her family—her brother’s interest in the non-magical military, her father’s continued medical practice, her mother’s position on the board of a non-profit. She manages to find a few things she thinks will suit each of them, and a small collection of books for Pippa’s niece and nephew.

And then there’s Pippa herself.

Last year she’d played it safe, spent the holiday at Cackle’s with Ada, demurring Pippa’s invitation to attend a holiday gala with her. She’d given her a book, a gold-leafed copy of magical fairy tales she’d loved in their youth, and she knows Pippa enjoyed it, has spoken of it often. But it feels largely impersonal now, feels like not enough. This will be the first holiday they've spent together as adults, the first holiday since they were children, too young and too naive to understand how precious it was. 

Her anxieties ebb and flow—some mornings, she feels ready, feels like they’ve earned this new thing between them, can believe Pippa’s words ( _We’ve always been a sort of family, haven’t we?)_ , and then, by nightfall, her nerves will return, and she thinks about calling the whole thing off, hiding away at Cackle’s, where everything is safe and comforting and decidedly not as terrifying as the feelings she has for Pippa, which seem to brew closer and closer to the surface every day.

Feelings she’s starting to suspect might, just maybe, be returned, at least in part.

It’s this that gives her pause, makes her square her shoulders and try to bury her apprehensiveness.

She won’t hurt Pippa again. Not like last time, not this time. She made a promise, and she’ll keep it—whatever Pippa’s family has to say about it.

The night before she’s due at the Pentangle’s, Hecate packs a trunk with her gifts and a spare cloak. She’d done a weather spell earlier in the day, and it indicated heavy snows over the mountains between Cackle’s and the Pentangle’s estate. She isn’t quite comfortable with the idea of spending the night, but just in case the weather locks her in, she packs a small satchel of toiletries and a change of clothes.

Pippa calls in the middle of her packing, a bright, nervous grin on her face and the sound of children shrieking in the background.

“Sorry,” she says, motioning for the door to close, quieting the din, “Annabelle’s taken Andrew’s stuffed monkey...again.”

Hecate frowns, pausing in her folding. “And this...monkey holds importance?”

“It’s his favorite. He takes it everywhere.”

Hecate nods, and though she understands the theory behind the attachment, it makes little sense to her. She wasn’t allowed frivolous toys, only books and practical items for practicing spells and potions, but Pippa is sighing with nostalgia, saying,

“I had a rabbit much like that. Remember?”

Hecate’s lips quirk. “Mr. Bunny.”

“I still have him.”

“Of course you do.”

Pippa rolls her eyes. “Don’t mock me. He was my best friend before you.”

Hecate’s heart catches, and she can’t quite hide the soft smile that pulls at her lips.

“I won’t,” she says, and Pippa grins, changes the subject to her arrival tomorrow, a nervous energy to her tone that Hecate feels, but does a better job concealing.

“Supper will be at seven,” she says, “but…” She bites her lip, and Hecate arches an eyebrow. “Annabelle is putting on a one-woman Yule play at four and she’s requested your presence.”

“A play?”

Pippa nods. “She’s been very secretive, but apparently she’s been practicing all week. I think she wants to impress you.”

Hecate blinks. “Me?”

Pippa smiles indulgently. “I...may have mentioned your proficiency in potions a few times, and she’s quite starry-eyed.”

Hecate nods slowly, remembers Pippa mentioning her niece’s fascination with potions, and supposes, if her presence will encourage such early affinity, there’s nothing wrong with that.

“I’ll be there,” she says, and Pippa beams.

“Excellent.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a bit nervous, and Hecate’s heart jumps at the gesture. “I can’t wait to see you,” she admits, and Hecate warms all over, cheeks flushing. She tries to respond in kind, but the words stick in her throat, and she finally settles on a small smile, excuses herself to finish packing.

She checks the weather again—still snow—and alters her plans to leave earlier, in the hopes she’ll beat the worst of it. It doesn’t seem too terrible, and she’s an expert flyer. There’s nothing to worry about.


	6. decorations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- this one's a little angsty but i swear it'll get better!

Annabelle huffs, glaring at the door with all the might in her small body. “She’s late,” she declares, and Pippa tries to smile patiently, serenely.

“Only by a few minutes,” Pippa says, though technically, she presumed Hecate would be here almost thirty minutes ago, with enough time to settle in and have a cup of tea before her niece’s play. “I”m sure she’ll be here any second.”

From the doorway, Pippa’s mother smiles at her nervously before disappearing into the kitchen, and she knows what conversation is taking place. Knows they’ve been skeptical, uncertain about her renewed friendship with Hecate, but willing to give her the benefit of the doubt because Pippa asked. Because Pippa believed.

She still believes, certain it’ll only be a moment before there’s a stiff rap on the door. Only a moment before Hecate stands on the other side of it, annoyed with herself for her tardiness.

But as the minutes tick by, Pippa’s stomach starts to knot. Her niece sits impatiently on the sofa, legs kicking, arms crossed over her chest as she refuses to put on her play without Hecate. Andrew sits on Pippa’s lap, clutching his stuffed monkey, silent and sleepy, and Pippa’s grateful for his warm, soft presence, takes comfort in pressing random kisses to his downy hair.

Her brother tries to distract her, asking after her school, telling her little anecdotes about the kids. Pippa appreciates it, but still can’t keep her eyes from drifting to the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, flinching when it chimes five o’clock, and an hour has gone by.

Pippa doesn’t think Hecate’s ever been an hour late for anything in her life. Her stomach sinks further, but she tries to ignore it.

Setting Andrew on the sofa, she forces a smile and informs her parents she’s going to call, and disappears up to her room, where there’s a private mirror. She takes a steady breath, then calls Hecate.

She doesn’t know why she’s surprised no one answers. If Hecate truly has decided not to come, of course she’d hide rather than face Pippa. Of course she’d pull the same stunt she did so long ago.

But she’s promised. She’d looked Pippa in the eye and promised to come, and Pippa doesn’t understand. She thought they’d been making progress. Thought they’d been getting closer, that things were good and strong between them. That they were inching towards something more.

She spends the next hour torn between worry and anger. She doesn’t know what she believes. If Hecate truly meant her promise, then she should be here by now, and could be in danger. Her anxiety only grows when she turns on the news, reports of a major storm moving in across the mountains.

Her brother tries to keep his expression from pinching. “She wouldn’t be coming that way, Pip,” he says. “Cackle's is west of us.”

“I know, but maybe—”

He settles a hand on her shoulder and squeezes. “I”m sure she’s fine,” he says, but there’s a hint of anger there, anger she knows he’s trying to hide, for her sake, and she’s grateful, but she doesn’t want it at all. Doesn’t want their disbelief.

Her father sits in his usual chair by the fireplace, Annabelle on his lap as he reads from her favorite book, trying to distract her from looking at the clock, from asking, every ten minutes, when Hecate will arrive.

She gives up around six, curled into Pippa’s father, expression crestfallen, interest in performing her play completely lost.

Pippa knows she should be angry, but the worry is still there, and despite the dark that’s settled over the estate, she wraps herself in a heavy cloak and flies up around the area, looking for any sign. She doubts Hecate would have crashed, doubts an accident, but she’d rather be certain. She stays out until her hands freeze through her gloves, and the storm rolling in from the mountains creeps closer and closer.

Back inside, her mother warms her up with a pot of tea, and places a box of decorations on the floor, full of childhood memories, ornaments and mistletoe and paper snowflakes curled with age. 

“I don’t suppose you’d help me put these up?” she asks, pulling a string of carefully bound fairy lights.

Pippa forces a smile and nods, helps her mother tack the lights by hand around the fireplace; she always enjoyed doing things by hand around the holidays, something Pippa’s father never understood, but continues to watch with bemusement as they struggle with the cord. Pippa’s certain her mother is having trouble on purpose, but she laughs anyway, or at least tries.

Together, they carefully pull the stack of paper snowflakes apart, designating various windows, taping them to the cold glass.

“I remember this one,” her mother says wistfully, holding up a small, crooked piece of paper with jagged cuts. “Your first. You insisted it had to be pink.”

Pippa smirks. “I stand by that assertion. Everything should be pink.”

Her father rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling out from behind Annabelle’s book, blue eyes soft and kind in the dim light.

Annabelle finally perks up, jumps down from her grandfather’s lap and tugs at Pippa’s dress demanding more snowflakes, to make her own, and Pippa easily summons a pile of construction paper - in all different colors - and safety scissors. They sit on the floor and she carefully explains how to fold the paper, how to cut a heart, a star, a triangle. Andrew watches, wide-eyed, from his seat on the floor near the fire.

Over the next hour, they fill the house with decorations—paper suns and more string lights, candles and wreaths, a small altar of fruits and nuts and pine cones. Pippa explains the meaning of each to Annabelle, and does her best to keep her voice steady and bright, even as the sun sinks and the sky darkens.

She sees the looks that pass between her parents, her brother. Hears their fervent whispers in the kitchen, her father’s sharp, _she’s doing it again,_ and her mother’s soft, hopeful, _perhaps there’s a reason—_ that gets cut off by her brother’s angry, _I swear if I ever see her in person I’ll—_ and her mother’s placating, _Daniel._

Pippa squeezes her eyes shut.

She should have known.

It was too much to ask, too much too soon and of course Hecate would retreat, of course she’d run. It’s what she always does, and Pippa wars with herself, anger at her own presumptiveness, her own overeagerness that gets her into trouble always, versus the heartache that pulls at the center of her chest, what she knows, in time, will turn into a hollow bitterness.

It’s what happened last time, at least, and it feels so painfully familiar that she has to stand, excuses herself and disappears upstairs into her childhood bedroom.

She was looking forward to reminiscing.

To reminding Hecate all the wonderful times they had at this house when they were children.

Reminding her of nights spent enchanting the ceiling to look like stars. Hot cocoa in the mornings and her brother’s obnoxious antics; the time he came downstairs in nothing but their father’s robe, scandalizing Hecate into a near stupor for hours.

Hovering by the window, she runs her fingers over the music box on the sill, the one Hecate gave her that Yule, the one that plays Tchaikovsky, with a tiny ballerina inside.

 _I know it isn’t conventional,_ she’d said, her hands pressed to her sides to keep from shaking, _but I’ve enchanted it. It will play forever, if you want it to._

It had felt like more, then. Felt like a promise, beyond that of a simple toy— _I’ll be yours forever,_ she’d thought Hecate was saying.

She wasn’t.

Never has been, really, and Pippa feels her eyes sting and her throat close and her mother’s thin arms wrap around her from behind.

“I’m so sorry, darling,” she says.

Pippa nods, and forces a smile. “Maybe it’s for the best,” she says, as the snow starts to fall again.

Her mother says nothing, but leads her downstairs, and everyone tries too hard to keep the dinner conversation light and bright. Pippa does her best, but she can barely stomach anything, pushes her food around on her plate.

Out the window, the snow picks up its pace, falling faster, heavier, and Pippa hopes, prays, at this point, that Hecate isn’t out in it. That she decided not to come after all.

Her eyes prick at the thought and she excuses herself, taking her plate into the kitchen and bracing her palms against the counter. She won’t cry. Not over Hecate, not again. Not now, when she has so much else to be grateful for.

As if hearing her thoughts, Andrew appears at her side, thumb in his mouth, his monkey in his other hand. He pokes at her thigh, then stretches out a tiny arm, shows her a (slightly spittle-covered) snowflake, pink and tiny and horribly cut.

“Did you make this?” she asks, taking it from him reverently.

Andrew nods, and Pippa’s heart melts at the squiggly smiley face drawn in the center of the snowflake.

“Let’s put this somewhere perfect,” she says, taking his hand and leading him into the living room. She puts the snowflake in a place of honor above the altar, and hoists him up onto her hip so he can see. “There. What’d you think?”

He nods, burying his face in her shoulder, and Pippa cuddles him close. In the background, she hears Annabelle complain about not having a snowflake of hers on the altar, and Pippa rolls her eyes. Lets her brother handle it.

They spend the rest of the night playing board games, until it’s the kids’ time for bed. Daniel retires early, exhausted, and still wanting to call his partner (he’d had to work over the holiday, and Pippa knows how hard the distance has been on her brother) and talk before bed.

Her parents beg off an hour later, both kissing her cheek and squeezing her arm, little said with words, but their eyes say everything, and she knows tomorrow her father’s frustration and disappointment will make itself known, knows her brother will rage about Hecate’s treatment of her, and her mother will try to shield her from the worst of it.

Stoking the fire, Pippa crosses the living room to the windows that look out on the gardens, covered in snow, hears the whistle of the wind harmonize with the crackling of the fire. She wraps her arms around herself and lets a few tears fall.

She can’t do this again. Can’t go through the heartache, can’t lose Hecate, but can’t keep her either. Can’t imagine, whatever her excuse will be, that she’ll be able to move on from this. It’s too familiar, too painful, and she doesn’t think she’s capable of handling any more disappointment. Not like this.

She wishes, suddenly, that Hecate had simply turned her down. That she hadn’t said she’d come, hadn’t promised, hadn’t raised Pippa’s hopes so high, only to bring them crashing down around her. She’s embarrassed, and heartbroken, and swipes angrily at the tears on her cheeks, turning away from the window.

She curls up in front of the fire and tries to read, tries to answer messages on her maglet that she’s neglected all day, but she can’t quite concentrate, and eventually she gives up, lays down and wraps a thick blanket around her, stares aimlessly into the fire. 

She falls asleep on the sofa in front of the fire, her eyes stinging and red. She can’t bear to be in her room, with all the memories of happier times. Dreams of Hecate’s face, her hardened expression; dreams of her turning away, her back to Pippa and no matter how much she calls out, how much she tries to reach for Hecate, she’s always too far away.

She wakes to something she can’t place, her eyes scratchy and throat raw, the fire nearly gone out. Curling into the blankets, she tries to breathe deeply—and then the sound again, faint, like a knock.

For a moment, she doesn’t understand. Can’t place it, until it comes again, a bit louder, and she sits up, frowns at the front door just in her line of sight.

The porch light is still on, and there’s a shadow across the window.

Pulling back the blankets, Pippa summons her robe and pads to the door, confused and wary and when she pulls it open, stunned.

For a moment, all she can do is stare. Her sleep-addled brain positive she’s dreaming, delirious.

“Hecate?”


	7. frozen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- crap sorry i lied this is also a bit angsty? but there's fluff soon i SWEAR

In the end, it’s entirely her own fault. 

She knows she should have gone straight to the Pentangle’s from Cackle’s. Known about the storm rolling in over the mountains, known she’d hit disastrous weather if she came from the north, rather than the west. That she’d be ensconced in snow. 

But she’d had no choice, as far as she was concerned. She had to pick up the last of her gifts, Pippa’s especially, from town, and she thought she’d left early enough to avoid the storm altogether. Left early in the morning and planned to arrive at the Pentangle’s by three. 

She makes it to town easily, picks up her gifts, settling them carefully in her satchel before mounting her broom and flying off again. It’s several hours to Pippa’s, and at first, she thinks, her luck will hold. The weather stays relatively clear, only gentle snows and a bit of wind. 

It doesn’t last long. The closer she gets to the mountains, the worse it gets. Heavy winds keep blowing her off course, and she’s forced to use magic to light her way in the dark clouds, the thick snow that blankets her vision. 

Her fingers ache from gripping her broom, and her cloak tangles behind her, her hat long gone, lost to the wind. 

She should, she knows, set down somewhere and wait it out. Should find someplace warm and dry to settle—there’s a village, she knows, less than half an hour in the wrong direction where she could land, find some tea, and send Pippa a message. 

She could even reroute herself—fly far enough east to outrun the storm, then circle around from the south. 

But she’d promised. 

She promised Pippa she’d be there. Promised she wouldn’t make the same mistake twice, wouldn’t abandon her, wouldn’t hurt her, not like this. Not the same way. She’d even promised Annabelle, a girl she’s never met, and it seems ridiculous now and foolish, not to have given herself a better buffer of time, a window in which to arrive. 

Attempting to hold her broom steady, she tries to fly over the clouds, but they’re too high, and it’s too dangerous, even for her. Instead, she tries to stay close to the treetops, just above them, tries to follow the light of her magic, guiding her towards Pippa’s home. 

But her concentration is pulled, focused too much on staying upright, keeping her broom in the air, and her magic fizzles out every so often, and she loses the path, only to regain it minutes later, far off course. 

By the time she realizes there’s no way out, she’s already two hours late. 

It’s idiotic, and she’d personally castigate any of her students who ever tried to do what she’s doing; but she can’t go back. She’s flown too far into the storm, and turning around will be just as dangerous as going forward. 

So she grits her teeth and continues, re-orienting her broom every few moments, pushing against the wind that tries to drive her down, drive her off course. She can hardly see, and is at least grateful no one else, presumably, is stupid enough to be out in this weather. 

And then the sun begins to sink, rapidly falling beyond the horizon, and it’s too dark to see much of anything. With all the snow, she can barely see her own hands, white-knuckled around her broom, can’t hear her satchel rattling, hanging on for dear life, under the howl of the wind. 

She thinks perhaps flying lower might be a better plan, and is about to make the alteration when a stiff gust blows her sideways, downwards, and it’s all she can do not to crash into the treeline. Her broom spins and hits a branch and she nosedives, redirecting herself just before she hits the ground. 

She hits the side of a tree instead, her shoulder colliding heavily with the trunk, and her bag flies off, her broom spins, and something sharp catches her cheek before she’s able to, just barely, avoid crashing. It’s a harsh landing, one she’d be punished for as a child—an amateur mistake—but it’s better than nothing. The snow is several feet deep, and it takes her the better part of ten minutes, even with a locator spell, to find her things. 

Clutching her cloak, Hecate looks up at the sky through a break in the trees, and knows it’s no use. She can’t fly in this, not anymore. 

Thankfully, with her attention no longer redirected, she can focus on a mapping spell. The Pentangle’s estate appears to be on the other side of the mountain, across a wide plateau, and there’s nothing to do now but begin transferring. It’s too far to go in one jump, but within a half an hour, she’s able to cut the distance in half. 

Transferring helps, keeps her mind occupied, keeps her focused, keeps her from thinking about the state she’s in, the actual danger. 

Keeps her from thinking about Pippa. 

She’s over three hours late now, and she’ll miss supper most certainly, and her mind keeps conjuring images of Pippa staring out the window. Pippa, waiting. Always waiting, it seems, and she curses herself, her own arrogance, that she believed she could fly in this. That she was good enough or skilled enough to beat Mother Nature. 

Magic, she’s found, does indeed have a sense of humor, but it isn’t always to her liking. 

Resting for a moment, Hecate tries not to focus on how she’s feeling. Tries to ignore the pounding in her head, the nausea from so many transfers in succession; tries not to think about how she can’t feel her extremities, her boots and socks soaked through, the hem of her dress completely covered in snow, her cloak sodden. Her face feels completely numb, and when she raises a hand to transfer again, she realizes it’s trembling violently. 

She makes the jump, but barely. Stumbles out of it, and nearly throws up. Her magic fizzles, and she knows it’s no use. She’s too exhausted, too cold. She’s drained much of her magic in the long transfers, and she’ll have to fly again. 

Except she can’t fly. The wind is too harsh, the snow too thick, and it’s with a horrifying clarity that Hecate realizes she’s going to have to walk the rest of the way. 

Thankfully, she knows it isn’t far—perhaps another kilometer or two—and might only take her a few more jumps, if she could. Instead, she begins to walk. Slowly, methodically through the snow, and thinks about how much she hates this time of year—hates the cold, hates the weather, hates the strain it puts on her magic. She can barely handle a warming spell at the moment, just managing enough to keep her from completely freezing over. 

She thinks about the time her school froze, that she froze, quite literally, before pushing it out of her mind. It won’t help, she knows, to dwell on such things. 

Instead, she thinks of Pippa. 

Thinks of Pippa’s warm smile. Pippa’s laugh. Thinks of Pippa’s face, the way it brightens when she sees her, the way she always smells like flowers. Hecate thinks of her hugs, the only ones she allows, thinks of the way Pippa’s hair brushes her cheek sometimes, or the gentle kisses Pippa presses to her forehead when they say goodbye. 

She thinks about Pippa in her green holiday dress. 

Thinks of Pippa, waiting for her. Pippa, who might believe the worst—either that she’s hurt, or not coming at all, or lied. Hecate doesn’t know which is worse, which thought would plague Pippa the most, but she knows enough, believes in their friendship enough by now to know that Pippa will be hurt. 

That her absence will matter, and it tugs something tight in Hecate’s chest. 

It’s been a long time since she felt she truly mattered, in the way that she matters to Pippa. 

She knows she matters to Ada, knows she matters to the school, to the potions community, but it’s different. Warmer. 

She presses on, feet completely numb, clutching her broom in one hand and her satchel in the other. Her eyes droop every so often, exhaustion weighing on her. Everything hurts, beyond numb to the point of pain again. It’s dark, only her magic as light to guide her. But she walks, and walks, and walks, until finally she makes it to the top of a hill and sees the Pentangle’s estate, dark and quiet, only a few lights on in the windows. 

It doesn’t matter. 

She can make it, she knows she can, and keeps the image of a warm fire, of tea, of Pippa firmly in her mind, even as she hobbles through the snow. 

It’s the only thing that keeps her awake. Keeps her from stopping, from pausing for even a moment, keeps her from giving up completely and laying down. She wants to. Wants so badly to stop moving—her bones ache and her skin feels tight and each step feels like spikes driven through her feet and legs, but—Pippa. 

At the end, there’s Pippa, and it’s enough for her to keep moving, step by step until finally, finally, she reaches the house. 

She has no idea what time it is, only that it’s terribly late; but she can’t quite muster her propriety, and drops her satchel on the doorstep. Her knees buckle and she has to grip the doorframe to keep from collapsing, leans heavily against the side of the house before raising a shaking hand to knock. 

Nothing happens, no lights flicker on, and Hecate swallows, throat dry and parched she tries again, her knock still weak. Her warming spell falls away, her magic no match for her exhaustion, and the cold bites through her clothes, even worse than before. 

Ignoring the stinging in her eyes, Hecate takes a shuddering breath, and puts as much force into her rap on the door as possible. Ridiculously, she feels like crying, suddenly terrified no one will hear her. No one will come. That she’ll fall asleep on the porch and freeze to death and Pippa will never know— 

The door opens, and warmth floods against her, and it’s almost too much—the smell of spices from the house, the dim lighting that hurts her eyes, and Pippa, wrapped in a fluffy pink robe, staring at her like she’s dreaming. 

“Hecate?”


	8. snuggling for warmth

Hecate’s lips move, but there’s no sound, and Pippa blinks. Blinks, and blinks again, and she’s still there, a black-gloved hand pressed against the house, and for the first time, Pippa notices the way she’s standing, slightly crooked. Notices the snow covering her cloak, her disheveled hair. Notices the black mark across her cheek, the pallor of her skin.

The way she’s trembling, free hand clutched around her broom. 

Her broom that’s cracked, wood splintered and bristles bowed and a mashed satchel on the doorstep by her feet, and all thoughts of slamming the door in her face vanish.

“What on earth—” she starts, opens the door and moves aside; Hecate takes a shuffling step and pitches forward, her hand clamping around the doorframe and Pippa reacts instinctively, reaches out and catches her, hears the barely contained whimper against her ear.

“I”m s-s-sorr—”

Pippa hushes her, slips an arm around her waist and helps her into the foyer, closes and locks the door with her magic and focuses on steadying Hecate. Her movements are jerky, knee buckling every other step, but Pippa doesn’t know what’s wrong, doesn’t want to transfer her without knowing.

She helps her into the living room, onto the sofa, rekindles the fire and shrugs Hecate out of her sodden cloak, banishing it to the laundry.

Hecate trembles violently, and Pippa at least takes it as a good sign—she isn’t so cold or delirious that she’s stopped shivering.

“We need to get you out of these clothes,” Pippa says, watching her reaction carefully. “Is it alright if I…?” She gestures with her hand. Hecate stares at her for a moment, blinks slowly, then nods, and Pippa wastes no time in a changing spell, banishing her clothes and replacing them with a heavy sweatshirt, fleece trousers and warm slippers, even a scarf and hat. It’s a mishmash of colors and patterns that would have her smiling in any other circumstance, but Hecate looks so miserable, her skin still so pale. She sits on the edge of the sofa, trying, Pippa can tell, to maintain her dignity, her usual stiff posture; but the cold hunches her spine, makes her curve in on herself, and Pippa sits as close as she can, their thighs touching, and rubs a hand over her spine, trying to generate warmth.

“It’s alright, darling,” she says, more for her own benefit than Hecate’s. “You’re alright.”

Hecate nods and takes a shuddering breath, body leaning into Pippa’s of its own accord, she’s certain. Hecate tries to speak, but Pippa hushes her, summons a blanket and wraps it around them both, tries to curl her body as much into Hecate’s space as she can, to provide as much warmth as she can.

Hecate doesn’t resist, doesn’t even try, body slumping into Pippa’s space. Pippa wonders if she can hear her heart thundering, Hecate’s silence creating more questions—what happened and why and is she alright, will she be alright; and a sudden, aching fury at herself, guilt coiling in her chest.

She’d thought Hecate abandoned her. Thought the worst, while Hecate had been trying, clearly, so hard, to be there. Hecate, braving the howling storm, Hecate in danger while Pippa sat warm and safe in her house.

She doesn’t know how long they sit there, how long the only sound is the crackling from the fire, the occasional chime from the clock, the house still and silent. She’s relieved when Hecate’s shaking begins to calm, the tremors stopping. Pippa pulls back enough to see her face, smiling softly at the pink in Hecate’s cheeks.

“Do you think you can drink some tea?”

Hecate nods, straightens a bit as Pippa stands, disappears into the kitchen and hurriedly makes a fresh pot, speeding things along with her magic.

She returns with a steaming mug, watches as Hecate cradles it in her hands, blows softly before taking a tentative sip.

“What were you thinking?”

Pippa regrets the question immediately, the way it makes Hecate flinch.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, clearer this time, her eyes downcast into her mug. “I thought—I assumed I could make it on time, I—“

Pippa shakes her head and sits next to her again, unable to resist touching her, a hand on her knee.

“That’s not what I meant. You could have been seriously hurt, flying in this. Why didn’t you just stay at Cackle’s? Or land somewhere?”

Hecate licks her lips and takes another sip of her tea, still staring at her mug when she says, so quietly, “I promised.”

Pippa’s chest aches. “Darling, that promise isn’t worth your life.”

Hecate nods, but looks unconvinced, and after a moment, tries, “I didn’t want you to think…”

Her voice stalls, and she looks away, and it’s all Pippa can do not to launch herself at Hecate, to stay calm, gentle.

“Hiccup,” she murmurs, shifting off the sofa to kneel on the floor in front of her. Hecate keeps her eyes averted, and Pippa hesitates, braces herself, then reaches out with a careful hand and cups Hecate’s cheek in her palm.

Hecate inhales sharply, eyes meeting Pippa’s, wide and trepidatious, as if she expects some sort of punishment.

Pippa bites her lip to keep the tears in the corners of her eyes from falling, and brushed her thumb carefully over Hecate’s still cold skin.

“You have nothing to prove, Hecate,” she murmurs. “Not to me.” _Not anymore_ , she thinks, doesn’t say, feels horrid still for her disbelief, for not realizing the weight Hecate’s been carrying for the last two years, perhaps longer.

But Hecate knows, she always knows, and her lips split in a tremulous smile. “Don’t I?”

Pippa swallows, shakes her head, vanished Hecate’s mug and shifts up, wrapping her arms around Hecate’s neck and clinging tightly, half settled on the sofa, their knees bumping.

Hecate stiffens momentarily, then exhales, lifts a shaking hand and curls her fingers into Pippa’s robe, buries her face in Pippa’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she says, again, and Pippa hushes her, holds her close.

“You have nothing in the world to be sorry for,” she whispers.

Hecate clings tighter, and Pippa does the same, just holds her, overwhelmed and suddenly so, so grateful, and full of so much love she feels it press against her lips and want out, the words she’s danced around for the last year, still uncertain.

She isn’t uncertain anymore.

Hecate loves her, loves her enough to be brave and stupid and even if it isn’t the same kind of love—though she hopes, oh how she hopes—it’s enough. It’s everything.

A smile creeps at her lips, and she closes her eyes, soaks in the feel of Hecate so close, warmer now and alive and safe and here, with her. Where she’s supposed to be.

Hecate tilts further into Pippa’s embrace, then winces, and Pippa pulls back with a frown, remembers suddenly the scratch on her cheek, dark and angry.

“What happened?”

Hecate looks chagrined. “I...may have missed a branch.”

Pippa grins. “You crashed.”

Hecate huffs indignantly. “Hardly. A tiny error.”

Pippa’s smile softens and she raises a hand, pauses. “May I?”

Hecate nods, and Pippa lets her magic settle against the wound, soft and pink. It seals in seconds, skin soft and whole, and she can’t stop herself from leaning forward, brushing a kiss to her cheek.

“There. All better.”

Hecate flushes, but there’s a tiny smile curving her lips, and Pippa squeezes her hands.

“You must be exhausted.”

“I—“ Hecate starts, about to protest when she yawns, pulling a hand away to cover her mouth in embarrassment.

Pippa laughs softly and stands, pulling Hecate gently to her feet. She unwinds the scarf from around her neck and settles it on top of the hat on the arm of the sofa. Hecate’s hair is in disarray, the first time she’s ever seen it as such, and she wants to take it down, to brush it out for her and plait it.

But Hecate is swaying on her feet, and Pippa transfers them upstairs to her childhood bedroom, ushers Hecate toward the bed.

She doesn’t complain, doesn’t seem to notice where they are, and Pippa’s chest rugs at the exhaustion on her face, the way her eyes keep drifting shut no matter how hard she tries to pry them open.

“Go to sleep, Hiccup,” she says, tucking the blankets around Hecate’s shoulders.

Hecate peers up at her, expression soft, but hesitant, like she wants to ask something but is afraid. Pippa doesn’t know what it is, but she knows what _she_ wants, what she needs.

“Could I—would it be alright if I stay with you?”

Hecate blinks, cheeks flushing. “Here?”

Pippa nods, bites her lip as Hecate seems to consider; but she nods after only a moment, turns to face the other side of the bed as Pippa crawls in under the covers.

“Like when we were kids,” she whispers.

Hecate nods, and smiles softly, closes her eyes, and it’s only a minute before her breathing evens out, and Pippa knows she’s asleep.


	9. meeting the parents

Hecate wakes feeling warm and flushed, her face buried in unbearably soft sheets. Dull light cracks through the blinds, and she can still hear the howl of wind outside. It takes her a long moment to get her bearings, to pull herself from heavy sleep. Her body feels sore, weighted, her shoulder especially, and her head still aches, though not nearly as badly as the night before. She tries to move, to resettle, but there’s something across her chest, and for a brief second, she panics. Can’t breathe.

And then there’s a snuffling sound from behind her, movement against her leg, and she remembers: Pippa.

She’s in Pippa’s bed, in Pippa’s house, with Pippa right behind her, arm thrown over Hecate’s waist, her face pressed into the back of Hecate’s neck.

Her breath catches, and she freezes, unsure what to do—if she should extricate herself, if she even could without waking Pippa. Part of her feels like she should be embarrassed, with the way her legs have tangled with Pippa’s at some point during the night, her hand curled over Pippa’s hand on her stomach.

But it feels too right, too perfect, too warm and comfortable and familiar, though they haven’t found themselves like this for thirty years.

Behind her, Pippa nuzzles her nose against Hecate’s skin and sighs, and Hecate allows a small smile to tug at her lips. Allows herself this moment, soft and steady.

Closing her eyes, she lets herself relax, buries her face in the pillow and dozes.

She isn’t sure how long passes before Pippa stirs, mumbling incoherently, her arm tightening around Hecate’s waist as she pulls her closer.

Hecate doesn’t mind, but it’s only a moment before Pippa seems to realize where she is, what she’s done, and lets out a quiet, “Oh.”

Hecate turns, rolls over on her back to see Pippa’s face, smiles at the faint blush to her cheeks.

“Sorry,” Pippa says, “I didn’t mean to—”

“Sleep like a squid?”

Pippa pouts at the descriptor, but smiles when Hecate settles a hand tentatively over Pippa’s, keeping her from pulling away entirely.

“I was just trying to keep you warm,” she defends, lifting her chin, and Hecate rolls her eyes, thinks of when they were children, when Pippa would slip into her room at night and they’d wake to find themselves in much the same position, one curled around the other.

They never talked about it, and Hecate always felt ashamed, started finding reasons to avoid sleeping near Pippa, staying awake long into the night. But she could never turn her away, not then, not know, and she bites her lip at Pippa’s sleep tousled hair, the sleep still in the corners of her eyes, the indent of the pillowcase on her cheek.

She wants to wake up like this every day.

The thought makes her blush, look away, but she can’t bring herself to leave.

Pippa seems to feel the same, and when her stomach growls she does nothing more than laugh and bury her face in Hecate’s shoulder.

“If I’m hungry you must be starving,” she says, a question, and Hecate lifts one shoulder, burying her wince.

“I’m fine,” she says, shifts more onto her side so she can face Pippa, smiles slightly at her smile.

Pippa shivers, and Hecate frowns, glances at the blankets still wrapped around her shoulders, doesn’t understand until she realizes she’s been tracing patterns on Pippa’s hand absently, unknowingly.

She stops, swallows. “I—” she starts, doesn’t know what to say, if she should apologize, but Pippa shakes her head.

“No, I—I like it,” she murmurs.

Hecate inhales sharply. “Pippa—”

Pippa leans up and presses a kiss to what Hecate assumes is supposed to be her cheek, but she misses, lands nearer her chin, the side of her mouth.

Hecate stiffens, wide-eyed as Pippa pulls away, just far enough to meet her gaze. Pippa swallows, looks down at Hecate’s lips and back up and Hecate can’t breathe, can’t think, wants nothing more.

“Hiccup?”

The word is barely audible, more breath than sound, and Hecate feels like she’s floating, feels ungrounded, save Pippa’s weight, and she brushes her thumb over Pippa’s hand, hopes she’ll understand what she can’t quite say.

Pippa’s eyes flicker to her lips and back again and when she leans in, Hecate closes her eyes, tightens her grip on Pippa’s hand and—

“Pippa, love, are you awake?”

Hecate rears back at the knock on the door, and Pippa startles, jerking away, but thankfully the door remains closed, just a voice on the other side, “There’s breakfast downstairs, and your brother made sweets.”

Pippa clears her throat before managing to call back, saying she’ll be down in a minute, and Hecate shifts away, sits up and throws her legs over the side of the bed and tries to get her bearings.

Her heart pounds and her hands are shaking slightly, enough that she curls them into fists on her thighs, tries to take deep, measured breaths.

And then there’s Pippa, sat behind her, a hand on Hecate’s spine, so soft.

“Hecate?”

She takes a deep breath. “Fine. Just—”

“Startled,” Pippa finishes. “I know.” And then, with a lopsided smile, “My parents have rubbish timing.”

Hecate nods, smoothes down the checkered print of her trousers.

“Perhaps we should...go downstairs.”

Pippa squeezes her shoulder and climbs off the bed, summons Hecate’s satchel from downstairs, as well as a few towels.

“I’m sure your magic is still unsteady, so if you’d like to shower, washroom’s down the hall, on your right. I’ll head down and let my parents know what’s happened.” She pauses, then touches Hecate’s arm again briefly before falling away. “It’ll be fine.”

Hecate purses her lips. “If you say so.”

Pippa smiles. “I promise.”

With a twirl, she changes her clothes from pyjamas to a pair of black slacks and a pink jumper, hair brushed, and Hecate envies the ease of her magic, knows it’ll only be a day or two before her own returns, but still.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says, and disappears, and Hecate’s grateful for the distance, for the quiet. Her thoughts are still roaring, and she takes her time for once in the shower, trying to sort out her wild emotions, all clamoring for recognition: her elation, her surprise, her fear and doubt and nerves at meeting Pippa’s parents again, especially under these circumstances.

She combs out her hair and plaits it, secures it in her traditional bun, annoyed that it’s still damp, but there’s little she can do about that. She’s glad she brought a change of clothes, and the restricting dress makes her feel better, safe, more at ease in her own skin.

Checking her watch, she’s surprised by the late hour, almost half gone ten by the time she works up the courage to walk downstairs, follows the voices into the kitchen, where Pippa’s entire family is gathered.

She can tell by the way they all look up immediately that they’ve been waiting for her, trying to pretend they weren’t waiting, and she holds her breath, glancing at them uneasily.

No one speaks for a moment, even Pippa simply stares at her, though her expression is soft and open, and Hecate clears her throat, fingers stiff against her sides.

“Apologies for my delay,” she says, “I was—”

And then her mother moves toward her in a flurry, smelling of Christmas spices, bits of flour on her jumper, waving away her concerns with a wooden spoon.

“Nonsense!” she says, pulling up just in front of her, as if stopping herself from an embrace. Instead, she pats Hecate’s arm and ushers her further into the warm kitchen, pulling out a chair next to Pippa for her to sit in. “Pippa told us all about it. We’re just glad you made it safely, you poor dear.”

Pippa bites her lip on a smile as Hecate takes a seat, spine rigid, confusion overtaking her features.

Pippa’s mother rambles on, bits of, “I can’t believe you flew through that storm! You must be quite the impressive flyer” and “Here, love, drink some tea—it’s my own special brew, it’ll keep you from getting sick.”

Hecate nods dumbly and does as she’s told, eyes flickering to Pippa’s father, still silent at the head of the table, Pippa’s nephew silent in his lap, and her brother, standing in the corner of the room wearing an apron looking slightly dumbfounded.

He stares at her, and Hecate stares back, until Pippa’s mother swats him in the chest with a towel and says, “Mind your manners,” and he blinks, huffs, and nods to her.

“Well met, Hecate. Again.”

She flinches slightly, but raises a hand and returns to greeting, unsurprised when he finally admits, “Gotta say, I was ready to throttle you yesterday.”

“Daniel!” Pippa gasps, but Hecate nods.

“Understandable.”

He shrugs, finally smiling crookedly. “Now I’d give you a hug if you didn’t look like there’s a broom in your back.”

“Perhaps,” Hecate says, “When you’re wearing less of the food you’re attempting to bake…”

He looks down at his apron, covered in chocolate and flour and spices, and laughs. “Touche.”

Beside her, Pippa rolls her eyes, then points to Hecate’s side, where she finds Annabelle, standing with her arms folded across her chest, her face in a grim line.

“You’re Miss Hardbroom,” she says.

“That’s correct.”

“You missed my play.”

Hecate’s voice softens, just a little. “I did.”

Annabelle shifts from foot to foot before steadying herself. “Auntie Pippa says you almost froze to death in the snow.”

Hecate slides a glare Pippa’s direction before looking back at the young girl. “Your aunt exaggerates.”

Annabelle leans forward on her toes, then back. “Will you watch my play today?”

Hecate glances at Pippa, at Daniel, before meeting Annabelle’s gaze. “Is it any good?”

Annabelle opens her mouth, about to be affronted, Hecate thinks, before she sets her lips in a thin line and nods decisively. “The _best.”_

“Then I suppose I’ll have to attend.”

Annabelle blinks, as if she weren’t expecting that answer, before her face splits into a wide grin and she launches forward, wrapping her arms around Hecate’s waist.

Hecate startles, stiffens, relieved when Daniel breaks in immediately with, “Annabelle, what have we said about asking before you touch people?”

Annabelle pulls back quickly, hands behind her back. “Sorry, Miss Hardbroom. I just got excited.”

Hecate nods slowly. “It’s… fine,” she says, still too stunned, unaccustomed to such affection from children. Her own pupils, she knows, would never dare, and it warms her heart, just a little, that perhaps not everyone finds her as intimidating as she tries to present herself.

Daniel apologizes once Annabelle scampers away, and the conversation picks up, breakfast is served, and Hecate realizes for the first time that she _is_ starving. Pippa’s mother—Marie—and Daniel settle into chairs opposite Pippa and Hecate, and eventually manage to rope even Pippa’s father into the conversation, though he doesn’t say much. A newspaper sits open on the table next to his plate, and he keeps glancing at it, the moving images and flickering headlines. He doesn’t address Hecate at all, though she figures that’s to be expected.

It isn’t until breakfast is over and the plates cleared—Marie waves Hecate’s offer to help away with a scoff—that Pippa’s father sets Andrew on the floor and nods his head for Hecate to follow him out into the living room.

Hecate does as requested, unnerved by his silence but unwilling to show it, and her stomach sinks when he picks up her broom, leaning against the front hall.

“I sanded it back down best I could,” he says. “You did quite a number on it yesterday, but I think she’ll fly true again.”

Hecate takes her broom—one she’s had since childhood, unadorned and functional. Her eyes sting.

“I....understand if I’m not welcome here, Mr. Pentangle,” she says slowly, carefully, “But I promised Pippa I’d—”

He shakes his head. “No, no. That’s not—” He looks a bit chagrined. “I just wanted to fix it up for you, for later. You did a hell of a thing, getting here. And you can stay as long as you like.”

Hecate blinks, startled, mouth opening and closing, and Mr. Pentangle looks almost as uncomfortable as she does, rubbing his hands together and staring over her shoulder.

“Right,” he says, “Let’s see about this play,” and disappears back into the kitchen, leaving Hecate frozen in the foyer, broom in hand. It feels smooth, balanced, and she notices for the first time, there’s a small parcel tucked into the bristles. Inspecting it closer, her eyes widen as she realizes what it is: a protective charm, tiny ingredients packed into a tiny green box, no bigger than the palm of her hand.

It’s a traditional present from parents to children, when they first get their brooms; but her mother had been gone by then, and her father never believed in such things. Thought them merely ornamental, and therefore superfluous.

But Pippa’s father must have noticed she didn’t have one, must have made one that morning, and Hecate’s chest feels tight as she stares at the tiny box, fingers trembling over the green ribbon used to secure it to her broom.

“He’s ornery at times,” Pippa says, coming up behind her, “But he’s a great big sap under it all.”

Hecate clears her throat. “I can see that.”

“Mum’s put on a fresh pot of tea, and Daniel wants to pick your brain about primary schools for Annabelle.”

Hecate nods, turning to Pippa and extending her broom, “Would you mind…?”

Pippa transfers it upstairs with the rest of her things, then loops an arm through Hecate’s, pulling her back towards the kitchen.


	10. ugly holiday jumpers

Less than an hour later sees them all back in the living room, adults and Andrew on the sofa in front of the fire and a steely-eyed Annabelle, chin raised as she introduces her one-woman show. 

She’s set up an array of stuffed animals on the coffee table, a small blue caldron in the middle. As far as Pippa can follow, it’s about a potions class—Annabelle herself as the star pupil, Pippa’s Mr. Bunny as the class troublemaker, a green frog named Richard, an elephant named Patty, and, to Pippa’s great amusement, a black cat as none other than Hecate herself, presiding over the class. 

To her left, she sees Hecate’s eyes widen, sees her shift uncomfortably, and Pippa presses a hand over her mouth to hide a smile. 

There isn’t much of a plot, and it’s clear Annabelle is improvising much of the dialogue, as all the characters argue about how to make a perfect laughter potion. It’s far too advanced for Annabelle, and there’s no magic involved, but the ingredients are correct, at least. 

'Miss Hardbroom the cat' corrects every student except Annabelle, in an imperious voice that Pippa has to admit is quite actuate, from what she’s seen of Hecate’s teaching style. 

Pippa bites her lip, half watching the show, half watching Hecate as she takes in the scene, and it’s all Pippa can do not to laugh when the cat winds up sprawled on its back in Annabelle’s haste to switch voices. 

Hecate’s face is unreadable, her spine stiff, and Pippa hopes she goes easy on the poor girl. She knows Hecate isn’t one for praise, especially where it isn’t due, and she hopes she hasn’t talked Hecate up too much in the last few months; knows Annabelle has taken a shine to the idea of the woman she has in her head, rather than Hecate herself. 

The show drags on, and while Pippa enjoys it immensely—is proud of her niece regardless of its faults—she’s relieved when Annabelle finally enlists her father’s help to add hot water to the cauldron, giving it a steaming effect like that of a real potion. 

Ladling the concoction into child-sized cups, Annabelle passes each adult a sample, and Pippa knows by the way her brother coughs and hides a grimace behind a too loud, “Well done, Annie!” that it likely tastes horrendous. Still, he pretends to laugh, as do her parents, as does she, after she takes a tentative sip and hides her own wince, smiling down at her niece. 

“Lovely,” she says, forcing a chuckle, and Annabelle beams before moving on, handing Hecate a cup. 

Pippa can feel the room tense, her brother beside her holding his breath, and she bites her lip, watching as Hecate sniffs the “potion” and frowns. Still, she takes a sip, masking her distaste in a neutral expression. 

Annabelle stares up at her eagerly, rocking back and forth on her heels. 

“It’s quite sour,” Hecate says finally, and Annabelle’s face falls instantly. “Laughter potions require a very deft hand, and a bit of sweetness. You’ve forgotten a key ingredient.”

She doesn’t say it unkindly, but Annabelle’s eyes widen, tears gathering in the corners, and Daniel quickly tries to assuage her, a gentle, “Sometimes potions don’t work the same on everyone—"

Hecate glares at him. “Nonsense. A perfectly brewed potion will have the same effect on everyone.”

Annabelle’s lips quiver as she looks down the line of adults. “It didn’t make you laugh?”

Daniel stutters, looks about ready to strangle Hecate when she stands abruptly, looks down at Annabelle and says, “Follow me.”

Annabelle scrambles after her into the kitchen, and Pippa follows, along with her parents, and her brother who leans into Pippa’s space with a short, “If she makes her cry—"

Pippa squeezes his arm. “They’ll be fine. Trust me.”

He looks unconvinced, then surprised when he enters the kitchen and finds a black cauldron on the table, surrounded by ingredients, Pippa is certain, from Hecate’s own supply, the case she carries with her wherever she goes. She must have used her magic to summon them, and she’s about to scold her when Hecate raises her eyes and gives her a knowing look. 

Standing on a chair next to Hecate, Annabelle does exactly as she’s instructed: cuts the ingredients just so, stirs as many times as Hecate tells her. 

“You added too much eye of newt,” Hecate says, staying her hand when she tries to add another. “That’s what made the potion sour.”

“Oh,” Annabelle says, looking down at the ingredients left on the table. “What’s that?”

“Angelica,” Hecate says, and Annabelle’s eyes widen. 

“I know that one,” she says. “Daddy uses it to make candy. Will that make it sweet?”

“Precisely,” Hecate says, snipping off a flower and instructing Annabelle on how to grind it. 

She adds it to the potion, gasping when it starts to bubble. 

“It’s working!”

“Indeed,” Hecate says, “Now, stir it twelve times to your left.”

Annabelle does, counting slowly, and Pippa can see the moment Hecate slips a tiny bit of her own magic into the cauldron, enough to give it life. 

It steams and bubbles faster, and after twelve stirs, Hecate gestures for her to ladle the potion into a mug. 

She gestures for Annabelle to pass it around, but she shakes her head, extending the mug toward Hecate, eyes wide. “So I know it worked for real,” she says, and Pippa feels a bit bad, sees her brother look chagrined. 

Hecate hesitates, but relents, takes a careful sip, and Pippa knows by the way her lips twist, and the small burst of laughter, that it’s real. That she isn’t faking. 

Clearing her throat, Hecate tries to school her expression, but her lips stay lifted and she nods. “A textbook laughter potion. Well done.”

Annabelle grins widely, and at her father’s approval, takes a drink herself and giggles, can’t stop giggling, and nearly topples off her chair. Hecate stays her with a hand on her shoulder. 

Annabelle passes the mug around the room, and for the next half hour, it’s full of bright laughter and praises for Annabelle’s potion; even Daniel mouths a ‘thank you’ to Hecate before she slips away, and Pippa gives her a few minutes before following. 

She finds Hecate upstairs, sitting on the edge of Pippa’s bed, fingers pressed to her temples, and Pippa sighs, sits next to her. 

“You shouldn’t have strained your magic,” she scolds gently, prying Hecate’s hands away from her head. 

“She was very close,” Hecate defends. “She just needed—"  


“I know. You’ve no idea how happy you’ve made her. She’ll be telling this story for months.”

Hecate shrugs, then winces, her hand going to her shoulder. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just a bit sore.”

Pippa frowns. “From your flight? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s hardly worth mentioning. Just a little bruised.”

“Bruised?”

Hecate seals her lips together. “It’s nothing,” she repeats.

Pippa doesn’t buy it, not at all, but Hecate insists she’s fine, that she just needed a moment. 

“Let me at least get you some painkillers,” Pippa says, and Hecate finally relents, swallowing down the pills with a glass of water Pippa summons from the kitchen. She can tell they work almost instantly, and Hecate’s muscles relax, just a bit. 

“Better?”

She nods, and Pippa smirks. 

“Stubborn,” she mutters, and Hecate glares, but doesn’t argue. 

They sit in silence for a moment, and Pippa tries not to feel nervous, tries not to think about that morning, Hecate warm and soft against her, Hecate’s smile, Hecate’s lips, so close to her own. Tries not to think about what it could mean, what it will mean, once she gathers the courage to talk about it. 

But Hecate still looks a bit on edge, a bit tired, and Pippa knows now isn’t the time. Instead, she rises, holds out a hand. 

“Mum has early gifts for us, apparently, in honor of Annabelle’s success.”

Hecate blinks. “Gifts.”

Pippa smirks. “Jumpers, if I’m not mistaken. It’s a Yule tradition in this house.”

Hecate wrinkles her nose and Pippa laughs, slaps her arm when she’s close enough. 

“Be nice.” 

“No promises,” Hecate says with a scowl; and yet, she’s perfectly civil when Marie brings out several ostentatiously wrapped boxes, presenting them one at a time. 

Andrew and Annabelle are delighted, clamoring into their new jumpers, enchanted with Christmas lights on Andrew’s and a sparkly crown on Annabelle’s. Daniel rolls his eyes as his mum presents him with a red jumper with a Yule log on it, fake flames dancing like a real fire. 

Pippa’s father gets his traditional reindeer jumper, and Pippa’s, of course, is a blazing pink, with “Best Headmistress” in rhinestones across the front. 

Hecate can’t bury her snort, and Pippa mock-gasps, clutching her jumper to her chest. “It’s beautiful, mum. Hecate’s just jealous.”

Marie laughs, not at all offended, even blushes when Hecate compliments her magic, the skill it takes to weave charms into fabric so that they last. 

Hecate, Pippa is certain, doesn’t expect anything, so when her mother hands her a simple, silver-wrapped box, her eyes widen, and she looks terribly confused. 

“Everyone in the family gets one,” her mother says, “It’s tradition.”

Hecate swallows, hands trembling slightly, and Pippa wonders if her mother remembers: how Hecate never received presents at home. By the soft smile on her mother’s face, Pippa thinks she does, and she’s never been more grateful for her family in that moment, for the warm smile her father gives them, for her brother’s calming presence, keeping the children occupied while Hecate opens the box with something akin to reverence. 

“Now,” her mother says, a bit nervous, “It should fit still, if my enchantments are as good as you say. Granted, I made this one quite a few years ago—" She pauses, glances at Pippa uncertainty. “But, well, things happen, don’t they?”

Hecate glances up, confused, before she opens the lid, and Pippa peers around it to see what’s inside.  It’s nothing fancy or ostentatious—just a plain, black jumper, made of a soft cashmere, with a turtleneck collar. 

“It’s lovely,” Hecate says, brushing her fingers over the fabric. 

Pippa’s mother hesitates, then says, “I made that for you when you and Pip were about sixteen. You were supposed to spend Yule with us that year, remember? And then—" She shrugs, then reaches over and pats Hecate’s arm when she flinches. “None of that,” she says kindly, and Pippa’s eyes water when she smiles, murmurs, “I always knew you’d find your way back.”

Hecate’s eyes snap to Marie, then to Pippa, wide and bright, and Pippa can’t help moving closer, squeezing Hecate’s arm to ground her. 

She knows Hecate isn’t used to such kindness, at least not quite so demonstratively, and Hecate stammers, finally manages a hoarse, “Mrs Pentangle—"  


Pippa’s mother waves her off with a wet laugh, “Don’t you dare,” she says, “you’ll make me feel all matronly.”

Hecate swallows. “Marie—" she tries, Pippa can tell, to say something, to express the gratitude in her eyes, but she falters, finally settles on a simple, heartfelt, “Thank you.”

Marie smiles, and Hecate ducks her head, overwhelmed. Pippa changes the subject, drawing attention away from Hecate and back to Annabelle and Andrew, prompting Daniel to pull out his camera. He takes pictures of the kids, of the family, and Pippa even coaxes Hecate into a photo, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pressing a kiss to her cheek. 

Hecate flushes bright red, but she doesn’t seem annoyed. Still, Pippa understands when she finally excuses herself, disappearing upstairs. 

Marie frowns, gets up and resettles next to Pippa on the sofa, eyes worried. “It wasn’t too much, was it?”

Pippa smiles softly and squeezes her mother’s hand. “She’ll be fine. She just isn’t used to...all this. She’ll be back when she’s ready.”

As badly as Pippa wants to follow her, wants to talk, she lets it go, lets Hecate have her space, knows the last few days have been exhausting and overwhelming in more ways than one. 

She spends the next hour entertaining her nephew, catching up with her brother, and helping her mum in the kitchen. They’ve decided to redo the dinner Hecate missed, with leftovers and a few fresh bakes. She slips upstairs to check on Hecate, unsurprised when she finds her fast asleep, curled up on Pippa’s bed, sweater clutched in her hands. 

Pippa’s eyes water at the image she makes, so soft, and she summons a blanket, gently tucks it around Hecate’s shoulders and turns out the light. 


	11. snowed in

She wakes to something soft against her cheek, a gentle pressure on her shoulder. She still startles, unused to a presence when she opens her eyes, but relaxes when she sees a flash of bright pink.

Pippa.

The day comes back to her quickly, and her cheeks flush when she realizes she must have dozed off after slipping away. She doesn’t know how long she’s been, but it does seem darker outside, and she reaches for an explanation before she’s fully sat up.

“Don’t you dare,” Pippa interrupts, shifting to allow her space. “You went through quite the ordeal yesterday, and no one here cares that you took a cat nap.”

“It’s terribly rude—" she tries, but Pippa shakes her head.

“You fought a snow storm, Hecate, and almost lost,” Pippa reminds her. “ _And_ you used magic when you should be conserving it,” she says pointedly. “It’s no wonder you’re exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” she says automatically, and it’s partly true—she feels better than she had this morning, though not quite herself. Her magic is still weak, and it makes her nervous, feel useless and uncomfortable that she can’t even do simple things like transfer downstairs. She knows it’s temporary, but after what happened at Cackle’s a few years prior, it makes her anxious.

Whether Pippa’s picked up on it, she doesn’t know. They read each other better now than they have in decades, but there are still pieces missing—stories and explanations and behaviors picked up over the years.

Strangely, she hasn’t minded learning them. Even the things she doesn’t like, they make Pippa who she is now, bolder and braver and still unfailingly optimistic. And Hecate loves her. Always has, thinks, perhaps, she always will. Regardless of how Pippa feels.

She doubts, and yet, there’s a hand on her arm, and Pippa touches her often, smiles at her often, and the way she looked at her that morning, so soft…

Hecate clears her throat and tries to banish the image, doubts now is the time or the place, as Pippa saying, “Speaking of which, I...rather hope you don’t have any plans for the next few days.”

Hecate frowns. “What do you mean?”

Pippa looks apologetic. “According to the weather report, that storm isn’t going anywhere for a good while. We could be...we may have to stay here longer than we thought.”

“Oh.”

Pippa bites her lip. “I’m sorry, Hecate—I know you wanted some quiet time before the New Year, I—"

“You can hardly control the weather, Pippa, no matter how hard you try.”

She thinks of Pippa’s weather spell a few years back, the rain she drove away that came back brutal when she was gone.

“Still,” Pippa says. “It was my idea for you to come here.”

Hecate glances up at the slight tremor in Pippa’s voice, the uncertainty, surprised when she finds worry and guilt in her eyes, as if she’s forced Hecate to do something so terribly unforgivable as spend a few days longer with her than planned. It’s on the tip of her tongue to be sarcastic, to try to push away Pippa’s anxieties with her dry humor; but then she thinks about that morning again, and Pippa’s arm around her waist, holding her so closely, so tightly. Trying to keep her.

No one’s ever wanted to hold onto Hecate quite the same way, so she takes a small breath, says as honestly as she can,

“I’m glad to be here.”

It isn’t much, and she wishes she could say more, but Pippa’s eyes go wide and wet and she seems to understand, by her relieved grin.

“Well. Good,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, face slightly flushed, and Hecate marvels at that—that she can make Pippa fed such a way.

“I just came up to tell you supper’s ready if you want it. If you’d rather sleep, no one will mind.”

“Supper?”

Hecate glances out the window again, but the clouds make it difficult to tell the time.

Pippa smiles gently. “You were asleep for a few good hours.”

Hecate’s cheeks go red at the informality of it all, the presumptiveness, but Pippa waves her off again. “Mum made pudding, if that’ll entice you,” she says, “Just stay away from Danny’s soup,” she advises with a grin. “It may look the part but it’s guaranteed to taste like cardboard.”

Hecate rolls her eyes, following Pippa as she stands before realizing she’s still holding the sweater Marie made for her. A wave of emotions hit her again, too many to name, and she carefully folds it, sets it on the pillow, fingers lingering over the soft fabric.

Pippa says nothing, but takes her hand when she turns, and Hecate startles, looks down at their interlaced fingers. Pippa waits—for her to pull away, stammer, let go—but she doesn’t. Instead, Hecate curls her fingers back, and allows Pippa to lead her down the hall and stairs, only dropping away when they reach the kitchen.

“Miss Hardbroom! Miss Hardbroom!”

Hecate startles at Annabelle’s shout, the way she skids around the table and pulls up just short of crashing into her, shoving a sloppily made snowman biscuit in her face.

“I made this for you!”

Pippa stifles a snort and Hecate has to quell every instinct she has to tell the child to step away. Taking the treat gingerly, she nods. “I’ll save it for later,” she says, which seems to be enough for Annabelle, who skitters back to her father’s side nearly vibrating with energy.

Hecate raises an eyebrow at Pippa in question, and she laughs. “It’s an aunt’s given right to ply her nieces and nephews with sugar at Yule,” she says, and across the room, Daniel rolls his eyes.

“Is it going to be her given right to tire them out too?”

Pippa grins. “Not a chance.”

Her brother huffs, but continues stirring something on the stove as Annabelle dances around his feet.

Andrew, on the other hand, sits quietly on his grandfather's lap, thumb in his mouth, monkey under one arm.

Hecate stands awkwardly off to the side, unsure what to do, or how to integrate herself into the easy way the Pentangles move around each other. She’s unused to all the laughter, the kind teasing, the gentle and frequent touches.

It’s Marie who eventually saves her, motions her over and hands her a stack of plates and shows her where the silverware is, and even though she can’t—or shouldn’t—use magic, Hecate’s still relieved to have something productive to do. Something that makes her feel included, not like a strange, uncomfortable interloper the way she usually feels.

She’s careful with the plates, the fine China, relieved she’s gained more grace as she’s gotten older. Her sixteen year old self would certainly have dropped something, out of sheer nerves.

Still, Pippa makes it difficult to concentrate, brushing against her arm every so often, smiling at her from the other side of the table, touching her briefly. Everyone else gives her a small berth, and she’s grateful for it; but Pippa stays close, as she always does, and when she settles into the chair next to Hecate, their knees brush, and Hecate nearly bumps the table in her surprise.

Beside her, Pippa smirks, like she knows, and Hecate glares mildly.

Dinner passes in a whirl. Hecate still feels a bit off, a bit out, but the Pentangles seem to be trying their best to rope her into conversations. She tries to remain aloof, wary of showing any distaste for Daniel’s horrible taste in music or Pippa’s father’s modern ideas about medical magic. She holds her tongue, all too aware that people often find her insensitive, callous when she’s arguing a point, too passionate or too curt and disagreeable to other people’s opinions.

Normally she doesn’t quite care, but impressing Pippa’s family—or at the very least not offending them—feels more important than ever.

She’s concentrating so much on not outright scoffing at Daniel’s obsession with American warships that she startles when there’s a hand on her thigh under the table.

Hecate doesn’t want to think about what expressions she’s been making, certain she’s about to be reprimanded, but when she glances over Pippa is merely smirking.

“He gets like this every time,” Pippa says, leaning into her space. “I swear he can turn any conversation into one about the military. It’s almost a talent.”

“Men have no talents,” Hecate says before she can stop herself; but Pippa rolls her eyes, pointing a fork at her.

“I’ll remind you I have wonderful, extremely clever boys in my school.”

“For now,” Hecate allows. “I have to assume their intellectual promise wanes sometime after they graduate.”

“What makes you say that?”

Hecate gives her a pointed look, then glances over at her brother, who is currently trying to explain the difference between a frigate and a destroyer by constructing them out of mashed potatoes and bits of pork.

Pippa laughs. Bright and gleeful, she quickly covers her mouth with her hand, but Hecate bites down on her own smile, her pleasure at having elicited the sound.

“What’s so funny, you two?” Marie asks, and Pippa waves her off, shaking her head, even as she brushes her thumb over Hecate’s thigh, reminding her that she still hasn’t removed it.

Hecate flushes and stares at her plate, but no one says anything, and eventually she relaxes. Pippa’s touch stays until they all stand to clean up, though Pippa’s mother takes one look at the mess and says, “Sod this,” before magically clearing the table, putting the food in Tupperware, and washing the dishes in one wave of her hand.

The evening turns to board games, though Hecate abstains, content to sit near the fire and watch. Annabelle cheats constantly, which annoys her, but Daniel says nothing and the family go along with it. Pippa sits on the floor near Hecate’s feet, her back against her legs at times.

Her father, while still playing, drags Hecate into a mostly civil disagreement over the place of magic in genetic testing, and Marie seems occupied keeping Annabelle from throwing a fit when she loses.

It’s calm, and warm, and Hecate can’t remember feeling quite so at ease around people, even when Andrew who, up until now has all but ignored her, climbs up on the sofa and sits as close to her as he can, monkey in his lap. He doesn’t say anything—hasn’t said much at all all day, beyond a few questions and requests to be picked up or put down. But he seems content to sit next to Hecate and watch the game, or the fire, or simply stare at Hecate.

It unnerves her, at first, but she grows accustomed to it, enough so that, when he finally falls asleep, tilted sideways into her arm, she doesn’t mind.

Daniel puts him to bed shortly after, and it takes almost two hours to wrangle Annabelle into the bath and upstairs to her room. She’s grumpy from the game, and losing her sugar high, but Daniel seems nonplussed, and Hecate has to admire how even-tempered he is, when she knows her own nerves would be frayed.

It’s one of the reasons she’s never thought much about having kids of her own. She’s always felt her pupils were enough, the only connection she wanted. She isn’t sure that’s changed, but when she sees Pippa with her niece and nephew, sees Pippa with any kids at all, it tugs lose something buried, and she thinks, _maybe someday_.

Shoving the thought aside, she bids goodnight to Marie and Bernard before they disappear upstairs, leaving her and Pippa in the quiet living room.

Pippa resettles on the sofa next to her, summoning a blanket to throw over their legs.

“How long do you think the storm will last?” Pippa asks, and Hecate glances out the window.

It’s too black to see anything, however, but she can hear the soft whistle of wind against the glass, thinks of how bad it was just the day before.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Perhaps the weekend?”

Pippa nods. “Do you mind?”

Hecate glances at her, resists the urge to tuck her hair back from her cheek.

“No. Your family is…” She trails off, looking for the word, and Pippa forces a laugh.

“They’re a lot, I know. If you need a break—"

“I was going to say kind,” Hecate interrupts. “They’re very kind.”

Pippa’s expression brightens. “They adore you, you know.”

Hecate nods, but thinks that they don’t really know her, not yet. She’s tried to be good, to hold her tongue, to not make waves. She doesn’t know what happens when they find out other things about her—that she’s rude and abrasive and standoffish. That her patience runs thin. Doesn’t know what will happen when she finally snaps at Annabelle, or tells Daniel off for rambling too much. Doesn’t know what happens when they see all sides of her.

What usually happens, she assumes—they’ll change their minds, and Pippa will be forced to either defend their friendship or abandon it.

Hecate can’t say she would blame her, but it settles heavy in her chest, the knowledge that she won’t be good enough, not for Pippa.

That she never has been.

“Stop it,” Pippa murmurs, coveting Hecate’s hand with her own.

“Stop what?”

“I can practically hear your self-loathing,” Pippa says, pauses, then reaches out and cups Hecate’s cheek in her palm, makes her look up. “No one’s perfect, Hiccup,” she says softly. “And they know that. I know that.”

Hecate sighs, eyes slipping shut briefly. “There’s a difference between imperfection and…”

“And what?”

Hecate shrugs. “Me.”

Pippa shakes her head, thumb brushing over Hecate’s cheek. “My parents have always been very good at caring about the things I do,” she says softly. “They care about my school. They cared about horseback riding. They even cared about my brief and embarrassing stint into modern dance. They may not like everything about these things, but—" She clears her throat. “They care because I care.”

“It’s not the same, Pippa,” she says, almost a whisper. “I highly doubt horseback riding broke your—" She stops, unable to voice the thought, unsure whether it’s quite true, but she suspects.

Pippa smiles softly, indulgently. “No, you’re right. It didn’t. But...we’re not seventeen anymore, Hiccup. And hearts mend. And I…” She swallows, seems to steel herself before admitting, “I would risk a million broken hearts to have you in my life. In whatever way you want. I l—"

Hecate doesn’t let her finish. Can’t, not with her words ringing between her ears and her hand warm on her cheek and everything so soft and sweet and _Pippa._ She can’t bear to hear the words, so heavy in her voice, so she kisses her, leans forward and slides her hand around the back of her neck and kisses her.

It only takes a moment before she realizes what she’s done, before she tries to pull back and apologize but Pippa won’t let her, pulls her closer and opens her mouth and kisses her longer, harder, almost desperate.

Hecate sinks into her, closes her eyes and tries to believe that this is real.

She isn’t sure how long they stay so tightly pressed together, lips moving over lips, Pippa’s hands wandering up and down her spine. When they pull away, they’re both breathless, cheeks flushed and lips swollen and Pippa is beaming, eyes bright and a bit wet and she looks as though she might cry. Happy tears, but still, Hecate doesn’t want that; so she brushes her fingers over Pippa’s cheek, asks, with as much seriousness as she can muster in her breathlessness,

“Modern dance?”

Pippa laughs, shakes her head and cups Hecate’s cheeks in her palms.

“Shut up,” she whispers, and kisses her again.


	12. baking

Hecate sleeps in the guest room that night, which doesn’t surprise Pippa in the least. She knows Hecate needs her space, needs time to process, and she’s happy to give it to her. Especially when it means, in the morning, Hecate catches her arm before they go downstairs and presses a shy kiss to her cheek.

Pippa, for her part, has a difficult time containing her joy. She can’t quite keep the grin off her face, and though she refrains from touching Hecate too much in front of her family—for Hecate’s sake rather than her own—she keeps sneaking glances over at her throughout the day, certain her expression is as lovesick as she feels.

Hecate, for her part, flushes nearly every time, but smiles back, small and secretive.

Daniel seems fairly oblivious, too busy trying to distract a cabin-fevered Annabelle who keeps whining about wanting to play outside, and keeping her from annoying her brother to pass the time. But Pippa’s parents notice, she’s certain, and her mother keeps giving them warm looks and her father seems to be trying extra hard to pull Hecate into conversation every time she looks too tense or too uncertain.

It’s magical, as far as Pippa is concerned, and as badly as she wants to get Hecate alone for an extended period of time—so they can talk, among other things—she’s so grateful for her family, for their patience and understanding.

As the day wears on, Hecate settles more and more. She argues a bit more passionately, lets slip a few dry comments that have her father belly laughing and her brother near pouting; but he’s always been a good sport, and doesn’t seem offended by Hecate’s absolute lack of interest in his hobbies.

“Oi, at least I have one,” Daniel says, mock-glaring at her.

Hecate looks affronted, but her voice is mild when she says, “I have hobbies.”

Daniel rolls his eyes. “Extra potions work and scaring the daylights out of students hardly count.”

Instead of protest, Hecate glares at Pippa. “Does your family know everything about me?”

Pippa laughs, and squeezes her hand in lieu of kissing her cheek. “Only the appropriate bits,” she says, sending a red flush up Hecate’s neck so bright even Annabelle notices.

“ _Pippa_.”

Pippa grins. “For example, I didn’t tell them you’re a brutal chess player.”

“Brutal?”

“You could at least pretend to let me win sometimes.”

Marie brightens at the mention of chess, hardly waiting for Hecate to give consent before she waves a hand and a board appears on the coffee table.

“Best of three?” she asks, and Hecate nods, and Pippa loses them both for two hours. Her mother, at least, gives Hecate a run for her money, even winning the first round. Pippa thinks she gets cocky, because Hecate soundly trounces her in the second round, and the third is almost a draw, both concentrated and determined. Hecate squeaks by as the winner, and Marie laughs, delighted.

“Oh, it’s been a long time since someone’s given me a run for my money,” she says, jabbing a thumb in her husband’s direction. “This one can’t play for peas.”

“And yet, life goes on,” Bernard says dryly, and Marie rolls her eyes, magics away the board and stands, patting her hands on her thighs.

“Right. Who wants gingerbread?”

Annabelle nearly squeals and even Andrew perks up, climbing off Bernard’s lap and following them into the kitchen. It isn’t long before Marie hollers for Pippa, and she rolls her eyes, plants a kiss on Hecate’s cheek before aiding her mother, unsurprised when, after less than ten minutes, Marie shoos the children from the room and the conversation turns to Hecate.

“So,” her mother says, with all the delicacy of a bull in a China shop. “Developments?”

Pippa rolls her eyes. “Yes, mum. _Developments_.”

Marie smiles. “It was only a matter of time, the way you natter on about her.”

“I do not _natter_.”

Marie raises a pointed eyebrow, and Pippa huffs.

“Fine. But can you blame me?”

Marie laughs softly, shaking her head. “She’s very special,” she says, no trace of sarcasm in her voice, but there’s a hint of something else, and Pippa waits a few minutes before sighing, eyeing her mother as she sifts together dry ingredients.

“You want to tell me something you think I won’t want to hear,” Pippa observes.

Marie chuckles. “Am I that obvious?”

Pippa nods, but doesn’t say anything, just waits, and eventually her mother pauses in her stirring, leaning a hip against the counter.

“I just want you to be careful.”

“Careful?”

Marie purses her lips, trying to choose her words. “It doesn’t take a genius to realize Hecate is… different.”

Pippa bristles. “Different how?”

Marie shakes her head. “Not in a bad way, dear, just… she’s been through a lot. From what you told me, just in the last two years alone, but even before that….” Marie looks down at the kitchen counter, frowning. “You know, I remember the first time your father and I met her. At parents’ night. You were so excited to introduce her to us, and… well, you were young, so I don’t know if you noticed, but she was petrified, the poor dear.”

Pippa frowns, tries to think back to that night. She’d been so excited, thrilled to finally, finally, introduce her best friend to her parents. But as hard as she tries, she can’t remember how Hecate had reacted, and guilt washes up her spine.

“I don’t…” she starts, and her mother smiles softly.

“Of course not. You were twelve, Pippa. You were so delighted, but Hecate….” She glances toward the living room. “What I’m saying is, this environment… she’s not used to it, that’s obvious. It might be too much for her.”

Pippa nods slowly. “She slept in her own room last night. We’re not—rushing things.”

“That’s not quite what I mean.”

Pippa frowns, and Marie smiles fondly. “You jump into things feet first, darling. Blind as a bat and all in, all at once, and I love that about you. It’s gotten you so far, and you’ve accomplished so much. But I think…I think you need to be careful. For your own sake as well as hers. I don’t want to see you—either of you—get hurt.”

She thinks first to be offended, annoyed at her mother’s presumptiveness, irritated by the careful way she speaks; it’s on the tip of her tongue to retort, when her mother arches an eyebrow pointedly and says,

“You’re proving my point, dear.”

Pippa closes her mouth and glares, feels chastised, like a child, until her mother smiles kindly.

“My point is: she isn’t used to the kind of affection you are, dear. She may not know how to give it, or receive it. So just be patient, and don’t stick your foot in your mouth.” She pauses. “And be forgiving when she sticks _her_ foot in her mouth.”

Pippa laughs softly at that and nods. “Yes, mum.”

Marie nods and turns back to the baking, rolling up her sleeves. “Good. Now. Where’s the ginger?”

Pippa rolls her eyes, but summons the ingredients and helps her mother assemble the pieces for a gingerbread house—mansion more like, she thinks, by the time they’re done. After everything’s in the oven, they return to the living room, find Daniel, Hecate, and Bernard in a debate about witching politics. Pippa doesn’t quite follow, but she leans against the doorway and watches the way Hecate’s passion for the subject betrays her; little twitches of her hand, the color in her cheeks, and even though she continues to sit ramrod straight and her tone is mostly even, Pippa can see the spark in her eyes, and she loves her.

Loves her so much, it sweeps over her, makes her feel full and warm and a bit teary eyed, and she blinks the moisture away, doesn’t want to worry Hecate when she glances up at her.

Pippa smiles, joins in, settles next to Hecate on the sofa, but not too close, mindful of her mother’s words. Hecate doesn’t touch her, not while her family’s in the room, but the moment they leave to assemble the gingerbread house in the kitchen, Hecate sways into her, just a little, her hand palm up on her own thigh in invitation.

Pippa takes it, tangling their fingers together.  
  
“How are you doing?”

Hecate frowns. “I’m fine.”

Pippa bites her lip, stares down at their hands. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much, right?”

Hecate doesn’t answer right away, and when Pippa looks up, Hecate looks nervous, hesitant, finally says, “If you’re having second thoughts….”

“No!” Pippa says quickly, squeezing her hand, shifting to move even closer, to place her other hand on Hecate’s arm. “No, darling. I just—I’ve been told I can be… a bit much, sometimes. And I know the circumstances aren’t ideal, locked in here with my family, I just—”

Hecate shakes her head, brushing her thumb over the back of Pippa’s hand. “I’ve been told the same,” she admits, takes a long moment to parse her words, and eventually says, “You’re correct, the circumstances aren’t ideal. However, that is largely due to—” She stops, and clears her throat. “What I mean to say, is that I would… prefer to have you to myself.”

Pippa flushes, warm and delighted, and she presses her forehead to Hecate’s, tightens her grip on her arm. “I know the feeling.”

There’s a long silence, just the crackle of the fire, and then Hecate’s voice, so soft and so tentative, “Perhaps... I need to return to Cackle’s for a few days, once the storm abates. However, I…” She hesitates, pulls away and stares down at their hands when she says, “I spend a few days in the north of France after Yule, if you wanted to… if you wanted to join me.”

She seems to brace herself, waiting for rejection, and Pippa knows that even if she had a million things planned, she would cancel every one to avoid turning Hecate down. To avoid the embarrassed, almost guilty expression on her face, as if she shouldn’t dare ask for anything.

Pippa grins as brightly as she can. “I would love to.”

Hecate nearly wilts in relief, a small smile tugging at her lips, and she glances toward the kitchen before leaning forward, pressing a soft kiss to the side of Pippa’s mouth.

She’s barely pulled away when Annabelle comes tearing into the living room, mouth full of gingerbread as she shoves pieces of biscuit in their faces. “We’re building a house come _on_ ,” she says, grabbing Pippa’s arm and all but dragging her off the couch.

Pippa laughs. “Alright, alright,” she says, standing, and offers a hand to Hecate. “C’mon, Hiccup,” she says softly, “You heard the lady: we’re building a house.”


End file.
